Authors: David Hagberg
Soldier of God (16 page)
He threw the tape toward the figure at the same instant the soldier behind him shouted, “Halt!”
Twenty meters from the corner, something like a bee sting, but with the power of a sledgehammer, slammed into his back, lifting him off his motor scooter.
He grunted as all the breath was knocked out of him, and the night went black as he smashed face-first into the pavement.
Kelley Conley got to her desk on the second floor of the U.S. Embassy in Doha at 8:00 A.M. sharp as she did every morning, six days per week. She was a slightly built, attractive woman, who at thirty-two was the youngest assistant to any U.S. ambassador in the world. Divorced three years
earlier, she had to send her two children to live with her parents in Waterloo, Iowa, until she was either reassigned to Washington or given a post in what she believed was a more stable part of the world.
earlier, she had to send her two children to live with her parents in Waterloo, Iowa, until she was either reassigned to Washington or given a post in what she believed was a more stable part of the world.
As a result she was ambitious and earnest almost to a fault. And she was almost always nervous, expecting the Islamic struggle against the West to blow up in her face at any moment.
As far as she was concerned, all Americans living and working in the Middle East were on borrowed time.
Ambassador Peter Sorensen was in Washington this week, so all problems facing American interests in Qatar ended up on her desk. This morning the first two items were a reported shooting the night before in front of the Al Jazeera studios, less than a half-mile from where she sat. And the second was the arrival of Kamal Isomil, a senior news editor with the Arab television network.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the two things were related.
And all of that was in addition to the attempted kidnapping yesterday of Secretary of Defense Shaw. Every U.S. embassy and consulate in the world was on high alert. Everyone was jumpy.
“Did he say why he’s here?” she asked the receptionist downstairs at the security desk.
“No, ma’am. Just that it was a matter of some importance.”
“Very well. Have someone escort him up,” she told the receptionist.
She buzzed her secretary to say that Isomil was on the way, and two minutes later the Al Jazeera senior editor showed up with a plain padded envelope, which presumably had been checked by the Marine guards and bomb-sniffing dogs outside at Post One, the gate to the compound.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice and at this early hour,” Isomil said, graciously, in English. He was a short, somewhat paunchy man with wavy gray hair, dark eyes, and a ready smile. This morning, however, he was serious.
Kelley had gotten to her feet when he came in. “You have piqued my curiosity.” She motioned him to sit down.
“It’s not necessary, Mrs. Conley. I’ve only come to deliver this.” He handed her the padded envelope. “It’s a copy of a videotape that was delivered to our studios last night.” He seemed relieved to be rid of it.
“There was a shooting.”
Isomil nodded gravely. “The messenger did not stop when he was ordered to by the army, and unfortunately he was shot to death.”
“Good heavens,” Kelley said.
“It’s another message to the United States,” Isomil said.
Kelley stared at him. “From whom?”
“Osama bin Laden. And it’s very recent. He holds up a
New York Times
for June sixth.”
New York Times
for June sixth.”
A tight fist clutched at her stomach. “Last week?”
“Yes,” Isomil said. “We must broadcast this, of course. But we are giving you twenty-four hours.”
It wasn’t the first time that a video or an audiotape from bin Laden had been delivered to the Arab network, nor was it the first time that someone from Al Jazeera had brought a copy of the tape to the embassy. But never had such a senior network executive played the role of delivery boy, nor had any messenger before appeared so solemn.
Bin Laden’s last message had come nearly a year ago. “What’d he say this time?”
Isomil looked as if he felt sorry for her. He shook his head. “View the tape, Mrs. Conley, and then get it to Washington as quickly as possible. We can only give you twenty-four hours, as I said.”
After the Marine guard escorted the Al Jazeera editor downstairs, Kelley brought the tape across the hall to Neal Stannard’s cluttered office. Stannard, the CIA’s chief of mission in Qatar, was just getting off the phone. He looked up, his round face, horn-rimmed glasses, and polished complexion making him look like an eager contestant on a quiz show.
Kelley handed him the padded envelope. “Al Jazeera just brought this by. It’s bin Laden.”
Like Kelley, Stannard was young for his posting, but unlike her he wanted to be in the Middle East, where the action was. “Close the door,” he told her.
While she was doing that, he took the tape out of the envelope and checked to see if there was a message of any sort, which there wasn’t. Then he turned on his portable television/tape player and started the tape.
Bin Laden looked ill. His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his long beard mostly white. His hands shook with a slight palsy when he held up
a copy of
The New York Times
close enough for the camera to catch the date. He was seated on a Persian rug in a nondescript room, which had no furnishings whatsoever. When he started to speak, in Arabic, his voice was low and ragged as if he needed to clear his throat.
a copy of
The New York Times
close enough for the camera to catch the date. He was seated on a Persian rug in a nondescript room, which had no furnishings whatsoever. When he started to speak, in Arabic, his voice was low and ragged as if he needed to clear his throat.
“I want this translated—” Kelley started.
Stannard held up his hand. “I speak Arabic.”
The recording was less than three minutes long, but it was of good quality and the sound was clear. Stannard made some notes, and when the message ended he rewound the tape and started it again, this time translating for Kelley.
When it was finished for the second time, Kelley’s legs felt shaky. “Jesus,” she said softly, “he’s a monster.”
“And then some,” Stannard said. He picked up his secure phone and dialed a number. “I’m taking this to Riyadh this morning. They have the equipment to digitize the tape so we can send it via satellite to Langley and to NSA. They’ll need to get on it right away. Has this been broadcast yet?”
“No. They’re giving us twenty-four hours,” Kelley said.
“Has anyone else seen it?”
“They didn’t say.”
Stannard glanced at the clock on his desk. “It’s a little after eleven in Washington. You should try to reach Peter. State will need a heads-up.”
Kelley nodded, sick at heart, and suddenly she felt very naive. “Do you think he’ll get the people to do it?”
Stannard shrugged. “Why not? He got the guys for 9/11, and that op was a big success for them.” His call went through. “Charlie, it’s Neal Stannard in Doha. I’m coming over this morning. We got a new bin Laden tape, and this one is definitely flash traffic.”
Dennis Berndt, the president’s adviser on national security affairs, arrived at his White House office a few minutes before 7 A.M. He was in a highly charged mood because of the stunning events of the past twenty-four hours.
First was the hijacking of a cruise liner, the murder of dozens of innocent people, among them an infant child, the attempted kidnapping of
the former secretary of defense, and finally his dramatic rescue by the director of the CIA.
the former secretary of defense, and finally his dramatic rescue by the director of the CIA.
Then late last night was the call from Peter Sorensen, the ambassador to Qatar, about the videotape from bin Laden and the hint about its disturbing contents.
And finally the call just after midnight that the Navy plane transporting Shaw and McGarvey to Washington had made an unscheduled stop in Denver. The SecDef had suffered a mild heart attack, and his medical team needed the use of an MRI machine. Shaw would be okay, but the unscheduled stop was delaying his and McGarvey’s return by several hours.
Berndt had come to Washington from a professorship in international law at Harvard. Within the first year he had shed his academic persona and had reverted to his more comfortable background as a midwest lawyer. The media classified him as “one of the most laid-back presidential advisers in recent memory.”
He was a large, amiable man with a warm smile, but this morning he was worried. His mother used to say that troubles came in threes, each one worse than the one before it. He’d seen that very thing happen. And if that old saw held any water, God only knew what was coming that would top the hijacking of the
Spirit of ’98
and bin Laden’s new warning.
Spirit of ’98
and bin Laden’s new warning.
His secretary hadn’t arrived yet, but the messenger from the CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence was waiting in his outer office with an attaché case. Berndt signed a release form, and the messenger handed over the tape.
“Thank you, sir,” the young woman said. “I was instructed by Mr. Doyle to tell you that a translation line was added by us to the bottom of the screen, and that NSA analysts have a ninety-eight percent confidence that the message is authentic.”
Berndt had almost hoped for a hoax. “Have Mr. Shaw and Mr. McGarvey arrived at Andrews yet?”
The messenger glanced at her wristwatch. “Any minute now, sir.”
“Good.”
Berndt’s charged-up mood had turned dark and somber by the time he finished viewing the three-minute tape for the second time. He took no
notes; it wasn’t necessary. Bin Laden’s message was as simple and straightforward as it was chilling. When Al Jazeera broadcast this to the world in another fifteen or sixteen hours, there were going to be a lot of nervous Americans.
notes; it wasn’t necessary. Bin Laden’s message was as simple and straightforward as it was chilling. When Al Jazeera broadcast this to the world in another fifteen or sixteen hours, there were going to be a lot of nervous Americans.
He ejected the tape from the player and took it down the West Wing hall to the Oval Office.
The door was open, and already this morning the usual people were gathering: secretaries, chief of staff, speechwriters, and others in preparation for the usual 9 A.M. CIA briefing to the president. Three telephone conversations were going on at once, and four television monitors were tuned to the three major network news shows plus CNN. All of them were using the attempted kidnapping of Shaw as their lead story.
President Lawrence Haynes, a cup of coffee in hand, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil around him, stood next to his desk watching ABC’s Charles Gibson give his spin on what the event meant in the war on terrorism. Gibson, like the other news anchors, was making a big deal out of McGarvey’s daring
Die Hard
rescue. Finally someone was willing to step up to the plate and strike back one-on-one. America had a new hero who had saved the day.
Die Hard
rescue. Finally someone was willing to step up to the plate and strike back one-on-one. America had a new hero who had saved the day.
Haynes was built like a Green Bay Packer linebacker, with broad shoulders, bulging muscles, and a flat stomach. Despite his hectic schedule he managed to keep on a strict diet and maintain an exercise routine every day except Sunday. He was a family man, with a deeply rooted sense of honor; he knew the difference between right and wrong, and even his enemies could not fault him in that respect.
He looked up when Berndt walked in. “Good morning, Dennis. Have you been watching this?”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Berndt said. “I saw it on
Fox and Friends
on the way in.” He stepped in front of the president, switched the television to channel three, and popped the cassette in the player.
Fox and Friends
on the way in.” He stepped in front of the president, switched the television to channel three, and popped the cassette in the player.
“What is it?” Haynes asked.
“Watch,” Berndt said, and he pushed the Play button.
Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing as the image of Osama bin Laden came up. The Saudi terrorist picked up a copy of the front section of The
New York Times
and held it for the camera to home in on the date.
New York Times
and held it for the camera to home in on the date.
He began to speak, in Arabic, and two lines of script scrolled across the bottom of the screen, one in Arabic and the other in English.
“The great
(jihad)
struggle against the Western infidel has been in its infancy. Despite the many valiant and courageous successes by our brothers and sisters around the world; despite the triumph in the nest of thieves on eleventh of September 2001; despite the strike at the heart of the warmongers’ headquarters; despite the righteous blows against the embassies, barracks, warships, and even the buses and shopping centers of our enemies, of the blasphemers against Allah; despite the virtuous pain caused to show the unbeliever the correct path to Paradise, we are not finished.
(jihad)
struggle against the Western infidel has been in its infancy. Despite the many valiant and courageous successes by our brothers and sisters around the world; despite the triumph in the nest of thieves on eleventh of September 2001; despite the strike at the heart of the warmongers’ headquarters; despite the righteous blows against the embassies, barracks, warships, and even the buses and shopping centers of our enemies, of the blasphemers against Allah; despite the virtuous pain caused to show the unbeliever the correct path to Paradise, we are not finished.
“We are at the dawning of a new chapter of our book of just causes.
“The infidel has learned to pay attention. But they have only taken the first halting steps; as a child would upon leaving its mother …”
“When did we get this?” the president asked.
“It showed up at our embassy in Doha about eleven o’clock our time last night,” Berndt said. “CIA Riyadh digitized it and sent it by secure satellite link early this morning, and NSA’s people are saying it’s really him.”
“ … time now to continue in earnest the battle we have only just begun.”
Bin Laden carefully laid the newspaper on the floor next to him. He moved slowly and deliberately, as if he were in pain. It looked as if he was having trouble with his back or the muscles in his flanks. When he turned again to face the camera, he was still grimacing, but his facial muscles slowly relaxed and he smiled again; he was a man who was extremely sad, but who was at peace with himself and his terrible decisions.
Seeing the tape for the third time, Berndt was suddenly struck by the notion that bin Laden was not only a man
at
peace, but he was also a man who had
made
peace with his maker.
at
peace, but he was also a man who had
made
peace with his maker.
Bin Laden was dying, or preparing to die.
“No infidel should feel safe in his own home. No woman doing her household duties should feel protected. No man at work should feel sure his family will not die very soon. No person anywhere in the U.S. should feel secure that his children will reach their destination—unless their destination is Paradise, and then only if they have made amends with Allah.”
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